


Lies by Proxy

by Anyawen



Series: Collisions [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:30:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock uses John. Of course he does. Sometimes John isn't aware of it. Sometimes, he is. This is one of those times. May be read as following 'Collision Course' (posted on ff.net under user ThessalyMc). Missing scene from HLV that turns a universally accepted idea from the episode on its head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies by Proxy

John looked up sharply at the sound of the door opening, closing the book he'd been staring at, unseeing, for hours. He slumped back slightly when he recognised Molly standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Hey,” he said in greeting. He waved her in with a flicker of a smile, rolling his neck and shoulders and wincing slightly at the ache.

“I just heard,” Molly said softly as she slipped in. “How is he doing?”

“He'll be fine, eventually,” John replied, setting the book aside and scrubbing tiredly at his face. “Tore some stitches. Internal bleeding. Took him back into surgery to sew him together again and install the chest drain. Doubtless set back his recovery by weeks. Bloody idiot.”

“I'm glad you found him in time.” Molly said, crossing the room to stand on the other side of Sherlock's bed. She reached out to lay a hand on Sherlock's arm, hesitating briefly, before wrapping it around the bed railing instead. “What on Earth was he thinking running off like that? Did he say?”

“He did, yeah,” John answered, not elaborating.

“Oh. Right. I, uh. I see,” Molly said, flustered. “Have you been here all night?”

“Course I have. Well, almost. Right after he got out of surgery I went to have a chat with Mycroft. Had to explain a few things. Made sure to be back before he came out of sedation, though he fell back asleep so quickly he probably wasn't aware that I was here,” John replied. “What time is it?” he asked, stretching, stifling a groan.

“Half eight. Have you eaten? I could sit with him if you need a break? Or I could bring you a coffee or some breakfast from the canteen, if you prefer?” she offered with a smile. “Unless Mary is bringing something by?”

“No. No, Mary won't be stopping by,” John replied, smiling tightly. He saw her confused expression and shook his head slightly, his smile slipping into something more friendly. “I'm glad you did, though. We need to chat.”

“Chat?” she asked with a small laugh. “Going to explain a few things to me, too?”

“No, actually. Was hoping that you might explain a few things to me,” John replied. “For instance, the drug test results.”

Molly swallowed hard, going slightly pale, but she did not flinch away from John's gaze. John found himself appreciating her composure. He had been unaware of the steel in her character until he'd learned how she'd helped Sherlock fake his death and keep his secret.

“You lied to me, Molly. Or, rather, he lied to me and you helped him do it. Not the first time that's happened, is it?” John asked, his expression open. 

Molly shook her head slightly, her grip on the bed rail tightening slightly.

“You're getting better at it, though that might not be something I want to encourage. Much more confident. Though, this time it didn't fool me, so maybe confidence isn't the best metric for success.”

“John, I ...” she began. “Um. How did you know?”

“Nothing you did, Molly. I suspected long before we got to the lab,” John replied. “I don't blame you, really. I know what it's like, that willingness to do everything he asks of you. Even the stupidly insane things. And this time it was really such a small lie. Confirming non-existent drug use. Hardly something to get worked up over.”

“I didn't want to, John, not any of it.”

“Not even the slapping?” he asked, his lips quirking slightly.

John watched her sag with relief when she realised that he wasn't angry.

“Oh, well, yes. I guess I did, um, enjoy that, a bit,” Molly said with a nervous laugh. “Thought he deserved it for lying to you and making me part of it.”

“He did. Might deserve another slap now for not coming to your defense.”

“My defense? I don't … I don't understand.”

“He's shamming,” John explained, standing and waving a negligent hand in Sherlock's direction. “Been awake this last half hour or more. He heard you come in, and he's been listening to our conversation.”

“Don't be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock rumbled, his voice gravelly. “Molly doesn't need my protection, nor would she hit me when I'm recovering from a gunshot wound.”

“She's clearly nicer to you than you deserve,” John agreed, holding a cup of water so that the straw brushed Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock hummed his agreement around the straw as he sipped slowly, eyes still closed.

“How are you feeling?” John asked. “Don't lie to me. I heard the change in your breathing when you woke up.”

“Like I've been shot,” Sherlock replied drolly, then opened his eyes, his expression surprised, “and hungry.”

“Well, that's good news at any rate,” John said, reaching for the call button. “I'll call the nurse in and let her know you're awake. She can arrange for something to be sent up.”

“I don't need a nurse,” Sherlock huffed, reaching a hand that shook ever so slightly to tap the button on the PCA increasing the morphine drip rate. “Molly can get my breakfast when she gets yours. And coffee,” he said, stifling a groan as he pulled his hand back.

“Coffee for me, not for you,” John corrected. “Caffeine isn't generally recommended for patients recovering from cardiac injury.”

“Oh, okay. Yes, I … of course, ” Molly said brightly. “I'll be back in a few. It's good to see you awake, Sherlock.”

John smiled his thanks as Sherlock grunted a reply, eyes sagging closed.

“How did you know, then?” Sherlock asked when the door closed behind Molly's retreating form.

“Told you, I heard your breathing change. You became conscious of the pain, but didn't move to alleviate it. Didn't want to be awake, because that would mean talking to me.”

“You knew I was awake, but let me pretend. You didn't want to talk either,” Sherlock replied, his hand twitching as though to wave away John's inference. “But that wasn't what I was asking. How did you know my relapse wasn't real? You told Molly you suspected before we got to the lab.”

“Seriously, Sherlock? Shall we consider for a moment the size of London, and the number of drug dens it contains, and then calculate the probability that you'd end up in the same one where my neighbor's son goes to get high? And in the very next bed? You were there because you knew I'd find you. Eventually. You probably had half a dozen contingency plans to get me there if Isaac's mother hadn't come. Send one of your homeless network to see me in the clinic to drop some sort of hint, yeah? Because you needed me to find you. Needed me to drag you out of there and make all sorts of noise about doing it, because someone needed to see it.”

“Impressive,” Sherlock said approvingly. “Your acting skills are improving. I admit I had not realised you'd deduced my reasons and were performing accordingly.”

“Yes, well. I learned the hard way that I'm the key to convincing the world to believe things about you, and you wouldn't put me in that position – again – unless it was important,” John replied evenly. 

Sherlock didn't respond, but John saw the other man's eyes open to slits, his expression carefully guarded.

“And so,” John continued, “given that it was clearly important, I played the part you'd assigned me. Knew that you'd explain it to me eventually, if I didn't figure it out myself. Hardest part of staying in character was leaving the drug house. Had to fight off a laugh at your overacting.”

“I do not overact.”

“Well you don't _now_ ,” John agreed, smirking as he imitated the exasperated tone Sherlock had used as they'd exited the drug den. He couldn't help but huff out a laugh as Sherlock rolled his eyes before closing them again.

“How did you know to bring me to Molly?”

“I didn't,” John answered. “Considered taking you to the clinic to do it myself, but realised that wouldn't be public enough. My belief in your relapse might be the strongest point in favour of persuading the world of it, but it couldn't be the only one. You needed a drugs test to confirm your usage. I figured that you'd have some way to cheat the test for a false positive. Bart's lab would be fastest, and more public than the clinic, and having Molly believing that you'd fallen off the wagon could only help support the story. Didn't realise she was in on it until she hit you. Was a bit over the top, though, you did actually have it coming. You do know that, right?”

Sherlock snorted. “Getting you to take me to her for the drugs test was the weakest part of my plan,” he murmured, ignoring John's comment.

“No, pretending to take drugs in the first place was the weakest part of your plan.”

“Had to get Magnussen's attention.”

“And drugs were the only way? You don't have any other 'pressure points'?”

Sherlock's eyes opened fully at this. John met his gaze steadily.

“None that I'd see exploited.”

“Right,” John said, glancing away.

“You never doubted?” Sherlock asked after the silence had dragged on. “Never considered that it might be true?”

“Hmm? Well of course I doubted. Wasn't sure that I was reading things right. I decided that it didn't much matter, though. Wouldn't have done things differently if I did believe you'd started using again. I'd have dragged you out of there, gotten you tested, and called Mycroft either way. I imagine that was rather the point.”

“Indeed. Wasn't certain that you'd call Mycroft. Thanks for that. Escalated things quite nicely.”

“Did you know he wanted you to go after Magnussen?”

“Not until he tried to warn me off.”

“Ah. So you knew he was manipulating you. Course you did. I'm a bit surprised that you let him.”

“If I'd backed off, it would have given the impression that he could tell me what to do.”

“And yet, in not backing off, you actually did what he wanted you to do.”

“I did what _I_ wanted to do. That he wanted the same thing was merely coincidental,” Sherlock replied haughtily, his hand twitching again, though he clearly lacked the energy to complete the dismissive gesture.

“And you did get to rough him up a bit.”

“I did, didn't I?” Sherlock asked, his lips quirking up in a tired smirk. “I hadn't anticipated seeing him then. Put the encounter to good use, though I am surprised he believed it.”

“Are you, really? He worries about you, you know. And there was the evidence in favor of your relapse – my apparent belief aside, you showed physical signs of drug use” John replied, ignoring Sherlock's huff of disbelief at the suggestion that Mycroft cared. “How did you manage the pupillary constriction?”

“Pilocarpine. Nicked it from the chemist,” Sherlock answered.

“Good. Well, not the theft. That's a bit not good. But I wouldn't have put it past you to experiment on yourself with a homemade concoction.”

“Thought about it. Getting the pilocarpine was easier,” Sherlock replied with a sigh that was almost regretful. “I suppose I'll have to let Mycroft know it was a ruse, otherwise he'll have some tedious rehab programme set up for me.”

“Probably won't be necessary,” John replied.

“Oh? Did you tell him, then? You said you went to see him – to 'explain a few things' was it?” Sherlock asked, eyeing John curiously.

“No, I didn't tell him. Don't think you'll have to, either. They ran blood panels when you were admitted the first time. Drug screen came back clean. He will have seen it.”

“Ah. That could be inconvenient,” Sherlock said, wincing as he tried to shift his position.

“Saving you the trouble of persuading Mycroft that you haven't relapsed is 'inconvenient'?”

“The fact that records of the results exist is inconvenient. Mycroft won't be the only one to have seen them.”

“The records are confidential, Sherlock ...” John began.

“Privacy is an illusion, John. Anyone with an interest in my medical files and reasonable resourcefulness will find a way to see them. You managed it, after all. The records exist, therefore Magnussen already knows,” Sherlock said with weary resignation. “Vexing. I'll have to find another way. Though it does free you to focus your unexpected ability for drama elsewhere. Shouldn't be too taxing for you. Only one person to convince, this time.”

“Ah, yes. Those were lies, too. Right. And just one person this time. Nope, not taxing at all, given how very little time I'm expected to spend with her, maintaining this performance,” John retorted, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “It would be easier,” he continued, “if I knew why it was necessary.”

“My appreciation for your increased deduction skills was apparently premature,” Sherlock answered.

“Sherlock ...” John began, interrupted when the door swung open and Molly backed in, carrying a heavily laden tray.

John shot Sherlock a look indicating that they would be continuing their discussion. Sherlock met his gaze calmly, expression grim. His nodded response was almost imperceptible.

John rose and moved the rolling table into position over the side of Sherlock's bed before helping Molly with the tray.

“I got a bit of everything,” Molly explained as she lifted one of the laden plates to pull an empty plate out from under it. “And decaf coffee for you, Sherlock,” she continued, indicating one of the two paper cups.

John grinned at Sherlock's petulant scowl.

“What is the point of decaffeinated coffee? Useless.”

“He means thank you, Molly,” John said mildly as he pulled out a second empty plate and began serving himself.

“No, I don't,” Sherlock replied.

“Shut up and eat your breakfast, you mad bastard.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sevenpercent, kate221b, and SailOnSilverGirl for the use of their eyes. And brains.
> 
> The boys and their friends still aren't mine.


End file.
